


Constable Martin Works The Night Shift

by TeaandBanjo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Conversation, Gen, Littering, Pie Cart, Pies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 22:43:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13304886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaandBanjo/pseuds/TeaandBanjo
Summary: A tired and hungry Constable Martin gets off shift and looks for breakfast.





	Constable Martin Works The Night Shift

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Inzannatea for finding me an article about Australian Pie carts. ( For some reason, Google wanted to show me pictures of "pie charts.")  
> Thanks to Solitarycyclist for beta reading and dialect coaching.

Constable Neville Martin’s mind was a fog of hunger and fatigue.  The clock at the station had said just past five, when he left.   The morning shift was coming on duty.

He could smell the hot grease from the pie cart before he rounded the corner. 

The placement was cunning.  The spot was a block away from the Imperial Club, and many mornings the cart was mobbed by well-dressed drunks, hoping that food would fight off the alcohol for long enough to pass inspection and get home to bed.

The horse between the cart’s shafts was patiently waiting to go home.  The cart itself would soon roll away on iron-rimmed wooden wheels.  Its painted metal glinted under the street light.  The proprietor, Mr. Dibbler, waved when he saw Martin approach.

Neville couldn't walk past.  He stuffed a hand in his pocket and tried to estimate if he could afford a breakfast cooked by someone else, rather than toast, prepared by himself. He decided that he did.

Coin was quickly exchanged for a paper wrapped pie,  and Neville took his prize to the other side of the street and into a park. Enormous trees cast ghostly shadows in the street lights.

A slender young woman sat on a cast iron bench.  Her gloves and bag were next to her.  Coils of blonde hair were escaping from their pins, and from under her hat, and the kohl around her eyes had smudged.  Her red lipstick looked fresh and glossy.

Neville recalled Dorothy Williams, and wondered why.  It didn’t matter.  Miss Williams was back with Collins, and she was happy.

“Miss,” he asked, “Is this seat taken?”  He pointed at the other end of the bench.  It would leave a space between the two of them.

The girl looked him up and down.  “I don’t bite,” she said, and patted the wood next to her.

He sat down, glad to get off his feet.  The sergeant had done his best to run the new constable ragged over the last shift.

“So, is it late, or early?”  asked the girl.  She winked.

“Night shift,” said Neville.  “Really way too late.  You?”

“It’s late for me, too.”

Inspector Robinson had said “get out of your head and notice things.”  Some of the clues were important, some were distracting, but you needed to notice a clue to decide.

Neville took another look at her.  She looked tired, mussed, but she was giving him a sly smile.  Her shoes were cheap, scuffed, impractical, and pale blue satin.  The little bit of the dress showing at the open front of her coat was light and sewed with doodles of blue ribbon, but it was crumpled.  The metal frame of her bag showed brass at the corners, where the silver plate had worn away.  Her gloves were similarly distressed, ragged at the fingertips.

“A bit late for dancing, if you have to be at work today.”  Neville guessed.

“I’m good for dancing, as long as the boys are.”  

“Not me, two left feet, the girls won't have me anyway.”  He pulled the newsprint away from one corner of the pie.  The smell of grease was making hunger the most important thing right now.

“Don’t be so down!  Whoever she was, there are plenty more prettier.”  She winked.

“She was perfect.  I could imagine her in our house, I wanted to take care of her.”  Neville paused to take a bite of the pie.  “I never asked her if that was what she wanted.”

“So what happened?”

“The fellow she was seeing before got back to town.”  Neville sighed.  “I guess it’s good that she’s happy. Then I got transferred over here, and I’m the new guy and don’t know anybody.”

“So what did she really want?”

“Him.  And her position.  Before I left she told me all about what a jerk I was.  And I need to pay more attention to what women actually want and ‘don’t fit us into your fantasy of your life.’”

“I know about listening.”  She took another bite of her pie.

Neville broke a corner off the fried crust of pie, and then had to take an enormous bite before the filling could drip down his arm.  He chewed and tried to make sense of why a shop girl would be good at listening.  

“Tell me about it, please.  How?” 

“See, men like to talk,”  she shifted to face him, her knee almost touching his leg.  “They like it when a girl looks straight at them, and they can feel like she appreciates what they have to say, and she’s paying attention.”

“Do you?”  He wondered if she were joking.  “Pay attention, that is.”

She laughed.  “Not always!  Sometimes I smile.  Sometimes I nod.  If it sounds serious, I say ‘oh no!’ or ‘Really?’”

“Don’t they notice?”  

“The important thing is the appearance.  Eye contact.  A little touch on the arm.  Maybe more than that.”

Neville considered what she was doing.  He thought it might be considered flirting.  “I don’t think that’s going to work for me.”  

“I think it would work fine for you.  You’ve got dreamy eyes.”  She brushed his sleeve with her fingertips, he could see chips in the red nail polish.

“If you never listen to what the man says, how will you know if you want him as a husband?” asked Neville.

 

\----

 

Lola stared at the young constable, and felt anger rising, up through her chest and into her head.  The gin kept her from controlling it.   _ I need to learn to stop drinking earlier in the evening. _

“You don’t know much about women, do you?”  she snapped.

His lovely brown eyes were big as saucers.  “No, I guess not,”  he said, and looked down at the pie in his hand.

“I don’t want a husband!” she hissed.  “I have money, I can get anything I want!  I want pretty clothes.  I want men to dance with!  I want men to sleep with.”

The constable next to her was staring, and had let his mouth drop open.  Lola wasn't in the mood to show mercy now.

“My mother was the most proper woman you have ever met.  She got married, and slaved in the house, and had six babies.”  Lola rose to her feet. “It didn’t get her love, or respect, or even a new dress, some years.”

He closed his mouth and nodded agreement.

“My sister just got married.  He converted to her church and everything.”  She paced away from the bench, then turned back to the constable.   “She didn’t bother to invite me or our mother to the wedding.  Well, Mum I can understand…”  She took the last bite of her pie, and crumpled the paper in her fist.

“Is she happy?”  He looked up at her.

“It’s disgusting to watch,”  Lola began.  “They can’t take their eyes off each other.”  She flung the wad of paper away into the darkness.

“I wish my chance had worked out better.”  He was gazing out into the avenue of trees.

“So do I,” she said. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“There was a man. We were going to be together.  We were going to get engaged.  He cared about me.”

“What happened?” he asked, watching her again, with liquid brown eyes under dark lashes.

“He got shot by a dirty copper!”  Tears were bad.  _  A girl needs to keep her makeup nice. _

The constable looked like he’d been hit with something.  He pulled a crumpled handkerchief out of one of his pockets and offered it to her.  “I think it was clean yesterday morning.”

“He was trying to go straight, and a crooked policeman went and shot him!”  She tried to find a clean corner, and blotted her eyes.

“That’s terrible.”

“It was all over the newspaper when it happened.  Now everyone’s forgotten except me.”

“Did the policeman forget?”  The constable’s brow was wrinkled in worry.

“I don’t know. I don’t care.  He can rot in hell.”  She sniffed into the filthy handkerchief.

“Miss,” said the constable.  “I’m sorry I brought up the subject.  I didn’t intend to pry.  I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

Lola paused.   _ I’m tired, I’m at least half drunk, and my feet hurt.  Why am I yelling at this man who had nothing to do with it _ ?

“Will you let me make sure you get home safely?” he continued.  “It is very late.”  

“Mister, it’s early.  Honest women are going out to work now.  I’ll be home in time to see my roomate head off to the shop, and I’ll sleep, and tonight I’ll get up and do it all again.”

“Neville,” said the constable, who stood up and  extended his hand.  “It’s Neville.”

“Nice to meet you.”  She met his gaze, and gave him a small, damp smile.  “Thank you for listening to me.  I think you will be good at it if you keep trying.”

His smile was very lovely, with white, even teeth.   “You are too flattering, Miss…”

“Lo…..Nell,” she said.  “Good morning, Neville.  I really must go.”  She snatched her bag and gloves off the bench.

She turned on her heel, and fled as fast as she could, away from the policeman, away from his questions, and away from her memories.


End file.
